


Different People

by mickeysbubblebutt (brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly)



Series: Park Time Misadventures [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, i don't even know what this is, i was just excited to be writing again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:22:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4084774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly/pseuds/mickeysbubblebutt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’d been hard to get into the dad thing. After… After what had happened, he hadn’t wanted to be around anyone. He’d spent weeks alone in his house, drinking himself into a stupor. Finally, he couldn’t take the silence anymore. He’d gone in search of Svetlana and his son, and asked them to come back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Different People

**Author's Note:**

> This title is lame, but I didn't know what else to call it.

Dreaming. Mickey was distantly aware that he was dreaming. It didn’t happen often; he seldom remembered his dreams, rarely found himself caught up in one.

_It felt so real, though._

Under his hands, he could feel warm skin. The smell of soap, cigarettes, and something else–something he’d only come to associate with Ian–filled his nostrils. He could hear that familiar voice murmuring his name. More than anything, Mickey wanted to see him; look into those green eyes, take in the smile that Ian only ever aimed in his direction.

But Mickey couldn’t do that.

Because he knew Ian wasn’t here.

Instead, he kept his eyes squeezed shut. Maybe he could stay like this forever, his mind reorganising old memories into an almost present.

_God, he could almost feel Ian’s hands on his body._

A loud banging sounded at Mickey’s bedroom door, abruptly yanking Mickey to consciousness. Eyes snapping open, he glanced around him in disorientation. Automatically, he extended his arm, feeling for Ian’s warm body beside him.

There was no one there.

Loss. It crashed through him all over again.

_Ian wasn’t here._

The knocking came again, this time accompanied by a loud, heavily accented voice.

“Get up! You will make me late for job interview!”

Angry now, furious at losing images that his sleeping mind had conjured, Mickey threw his legs over the side of the bed. Ignoring the empty space where Ian used to lie beside him, he threw the door open to find his wife scowling at him.

“The fuck do you want?” he snarled.

Svetlana looked unimpressed. She matched his glare with one of her own.

“You must watch Yevgeny. I have job interview. I tell you this for weeks.”

Opening his mouth to argue, Mickey found that he couldn’t. That stupid interview was all she’d been talking about. Still, even if she had a point, it didn’t mean he had to give in peaceably. But before he could think up a suitable insult, or… something, Yevgeny’s sudden appearance shut him up.

“Dad!” The kid barrelled towards him, throwing his little arms around one of Mickey’s legs.

“Hey, buddy.” He was aware that Svetlana was stalking back down the hallway, the sound of her footsteps moving towards the kitchen. He ducked down to lift his kid up into his arms.

It’d been hard to get into the dad thing. After… After what had happened, he hadn’t wanted to be around anyone. He’d spent weeks alone in his house, drinking himself into a stupor. Finally, he couldn’t take the silence anymore. He’d gone in search of Svetlana and his son, and asked them to come back home.

Almost three years had passed since that day.

“What you wanna do today?” Mickey asked, placing the toddler on his bed while he rummaged around for something to wear.

“Swings!” Yev answered without hesitation. The kid bounced around on the mattress, a gleeful expression on his little face.

Mickey felt a slight smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. Yeah, he missed Ian so much that his chest ached. And sure, Mickey often went out of his way to avoid the places where he and Ian used to hang out.

But he was learning how to deal.

“I am going now,” Svetlana’s voice came from the doorway. “You make sure he eats, yes? And real food, not this garbage you Americans like to feed children.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey grumbled without looking at her. He sat on the edge of his bed to pull on his shoes while Svetlana kissed Yev goodbye. Giving him one last hard look, she left his bedroom.

At the sound of the front door closing, Mickey felt like he could breathe again. Turning to the kid who had resumed jumping around on the bed, he tried to figure out what to make for breakfast. Yev was a picky eater, and anything Svetlana might describe as real food usually got flung at unsuspecting people’s heads.

And  _unsuspecting people_  usually just meant Mickey.

Lifting the kid into his arms–not because Yev wasn’t old enough to walk by himself; it was just faster this way–Mickey headed into the kitchen. Mickey set Yev in his high chair at the kitchen table so he could rummage around in the fridge. Well, he didn’t so much as rummage as he did gaze sadly at the big bunch of nothing they had in the way of food. There were like, three eggs, a half finished bottle of ketchup and a jar of… pickles?

Mickey pulled a face and resolved to go to the store after they finished up at the park.

“You okay with eggs?” Mickey asked hopefully.

The kid appeared to be thinking about it.

“With ketchup.”

“Sure, with ketchup,” Mickey agreed, hoping he’d be able to get Yev to eat most of it. Usually, if left alone with the stuff for too long, the kid would mix up the eggs and ketchup to form a sort of paste, which he’d then smear all over the person closest to him.

Which also tended to be Mickey.

A few minutes later, he set the plate in front of Yev, and dragged a chair closer so he could feed the kid.

This was a tricky process. See, Yev knew better than to screw around with his mother when she was determined that he eat something. Mickey was convinced it was the accent that got the deceptively innocent looking little shit before him to cooperate. But since Mickey lacked the intimidating accent, he usually had to resort to bargaining.

“Open up,” he said, lifting the fork with the eggs towards Yev’s mouth.

The kid wrinkled his nose, giving a determined shake of his head.

_Right, they would be starting this shit early._

Not in the mood to argue with a stubborn toddler, Mickey capitulated.

“Eat your breakfast, and I’ll get you ice cream later. Okay?”

Things went a lot faster after that.

Getting Yev dressed was its own ordeal. Silently cursing Svetlana for not doing it before she left, Mickey spent several minutes trying to convince his son that his underpants belonged on his ass, and not his head. Then, the little shit almost had a screaming tantrum because he wanted to wear his winter boots to the park in the middle of July.

He’d would bet his ass Svetlana didn’t have to deal with this, Mickey grumbled internally.

Finally, after more than an hour, Mickey and Yev were ready to leave the house.

Grateful that Yev was small for his age–which meant they could keep using the stroller for just a little while longer–Mickey loaded the mismatched kid into the thing, and headed in the direction of the park.

It was a fifteen minute walk, and for the first time, Mickey didn’t completely hate the whole gentrification thing. At least the park was a little nicer, and there wouldn’t be cigarette butts in the sandbox, or old pervs whipping out their dicks, or whatever.

 _Yeah, only cat shit in the sandbox to worry about_ , he thought to himself.

They arrived at the park, and Yev couldn’t contain his excitement. His little arms and legs were flailing as he squirmed around.

“Swings, swings!” he squealed.

“Uh-huh. Just gimme a sec to get you outta here, and that’s where we’ll go.” Mickey tried to keep his voice calm to counteract Yev’s excitement.

It didn’t really work.

As soon as Yev was out of the stroller, he went tearing off in the direction of the swing set. Heaving a martyred sigh, Mickey trailed after him.

The next few hours passed quickly. Yev monopolised one of the swings for the better part of an hour before moving onto the slide, and then to the sandbox. It was while the kid was getting covered in grit that Mickey heard a someone saying his name from a few feet away.

“Mickey?”

For a moment, Mickey thought he was imagining it. As though the boredom of watching little kids building sandcastles had lead his brain into transplanting that familiar voice into this setting.

Still, it was instinct to respond, to turn towards that sound.

For a second, Mickey couldn’t breathe. Standing there was Ian Gallagher.

And it was like nothing had changed.

It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen each other around before, They lived in the same neighbourhood, so it was impossible for them to avoid one another completely.

Although it wasn’t for a lack of trying on Mickey’s part.

But this was different. Because now Ian was right there. All Mickey had to do was take two or three steps forward, and Ian would be close enough to touch.

He didn’t know how long they stood like that for, just staring at each other. Mickey didn’t think he would’ve moved if it weren’t for the sudden high-pitched screaming.

“What are you doing?” a woman cried. “We don’t throw sand at other children!”

A sinking feeling started up in Mickey’s chest. He’d bet money he knew which one of the kids in the sandbox was causing trouble.

Tearing his gaze away from Ian’s, Mickey found one of those blonde housewife types scowling down at Yev. The kid looked unimpressed by her outburst, ready to continue with whatever it was he’d been doing before he’d decided to terrorise one of his peers.

“C’mon, kid, time to go,” Mickey muttered, scooping Yev up.

“Excuse me, sir, but your child–” Huffy Housewife began.

“Is a child,” Mickey cut her off. “And kids will be kids.”

He turned his back on the sputtering woman, and hurried to settle Yev into the stroller.

“Dad, ice cream,” Yev said loudly.

“Yeah, in a minute.” Mickey’s fingers were trembling slightly as he tried to do up the straps on the stupid stroller.

_Christ, why were these things so fuckin’ complicated?_

“Yevgeny!”

This time Ian’s voice was closer, right over Mickey’s shoulder, and he felt himself freeze. The kid looked up at the sound of his name, blue eyes alight with curiosity,

“Jeez, I haven’t seen you in forever, kiddo.”

_Two years, eleven months, one week, and three days._

Wasn’t like Mickey was counting or anything.

“You probably won’t remember me, but I took care of you when you were a baby.”

“Not a baby,” Yev answered with a little frown.

“No,” Ian answered softly.”No, you’re not.”

Staring down at his shoes, Mickey was aware of Ian turning to face him. He could feel a flush creeping across his skin, along with a tingle of awareness that he wished to god would have faded by now.

“How’ve you been, Mick?”

The question should’ve made him angry. Ian had no right to ask him that, not with the way he’d ended things between them. Not with the radio silence they’d maintained for almost three years.

But Mickey didn’t care about any of that.

Because Ian was here.

“I-I’ve been o-okay,” Mickey said, forcing the words out through his suddenly dry throat.

Ian nodded, It was almost like he was relieved.

“That’s good. That’s really… I’m glad to hear it.”

A long silence stretched between them. He could see Ian shifting around, looking uncomfortable.

_Shit, maybe Ian wanted to leave._

He wasn’t ready for that to happen just yet.

Abruptly remembering how normal conversation worked, Mickey cleared his throat; it felt like he’d swallowed sand.

“And how things goin’ with you?” he asked.

“Better. A lot better. I got my GED, an’, um… I’m back on my meds.”

That last bit was said in a rush, and Ian quickly fixed his gaze somewhere over Mickey’s shoulder.

Relief. It was such a fucking relief to hear that.

Ian was okay.

Before Mickey could say anything–although, if he were honest, he had no idea what to say–Yev’s loud voice reminded them both that the kid was still there.

“Daaaaaaaaad,” he whined. “I want ice cream.”

Silently thanking god for the impatient toddler glaring up at him, Mickey forced himself to make some apologetic expression that probably came across as pained.

“Uh, sorry, man. But, uh, I gotta go,” he stammered.

“Yeah, sure. It-it was good seeing you,” Ian told him.

“You too,” Mickey mumbled.

Then, before there could be anymore of this god awful awkwardness, Mickey took his kid and fled.


End file.
